There are days when I think that not knowing Russian makes my life simpler. Explaining why I speak two languages feels complicated. I am ethnically Kazakh, yet Russian entered my life through the long aftershocks of colonization.
I grew up in western Kazakhstan, a region people often label as “more Kazakh-leaning,” though I’ve never agreed with the neat division of “Kazakh-speaking” vs. “Russian-speaking.” People don’t fit into those linguistic boxes — they are too binary.
In Kazakhstan, language is layered and fluid. Even when Russian or Kazakh dominates, the other remains part of your identity, shaping how you think and move through the world.
My first language was Kazakh. That was the language of home: My parents’ voices, my grandparents’ stories and the emotional texture of my childhood were all in Kazakh.
But Russian slipped in early and naturally. When I was three, my mom said something to my dad in Russian in the car — something I wasn’t supposed to hear — and I snapped right back in Russian: “Mom, I told you not to tell Dad.”
From that moment, Russian slowly became the language of everything outside the house. My school was in Kazakh, but my cultural universe from YouTube, movies, music and books were almost entirely Russian.
English entered the picture when I was still young, becoming the language of ambition and opportunity. English was for the future, Kazakh was for home and Russian became the in-between language I inherited.
Somewhere in all of this, a small, quiet shame settled in. A tiny sting that appears in certain moments. Like when I search for a Kazakh word that doesn’t come as quickly as its Russian equivalent. Or when I realize how deeply Russian media shaped my childhood, even though none of my ancestry is Russian.
Sometimes it feels like Russian and Kazakh expose me in completely different ways. Kazakh feels personal and tender. Russian feels public and effortless. Saying “I love you,” in Kazakh? I wouldn’t dare.
This is what it means to be part of the younger, post-Soviet generation. We grew up with inherited contradictions. We navigate Russian cultural influence without ever assuming Russian identity. We hold on to Kazakh while still switching languages automatically in certain spaces. We dream in multiple languages without noticing.
The shame is less about the languages themselves and more about the pressure to make them align perfectly with who I’m “supposed” to be. It’s the quiet sense that if my Kazakh slips, I’m disappointing someone. If my Russian is too strong, I’m proving someone right. It’s like constantly being measured by which language comes out of your mouth first.
Language shouldn’t define loyalty or authenticity. If anything, my bilingualism reveals the history of my country and the resilience of my people. If Russian is part of me, it’s because Kazakhstan’s story made it that way — not because I chose it over Kazakh.
So, yes, there are days when I wish my identity were simpler. But most days, I’m learning to see this complexity as its own form of truth. I don’t have to confine myself to one language or one history or one version of being Kazakh. I can carry all these languages without apologizing for any of them.
Maybe that small shame will always exist, and I will have to learn how to live with it. These languages don’t divide me. In their own uneven, imperfect ways, they make me whole.
Aizere Yessenkul is a NU-Q Communication senior and author of “Yes-sentials.” She can be contacted at [email protected]. If you would like to respond publicly to this op-ed, send a Letter to the Editor to [email protected]. The views expressed in this piece do not necessarily reflect the views of all staff members of The Daily Northwestern.
